


Confined Sessions

by drcalvin



Category: Romeo And Juliet - All Media Types, Rómeó és Júlia (Színház)
Genre: But they're not much happier for that, Canon Divergent AU, Fix it (with sex), M/M, Prison, Threesome - M/M/M, Violence, What If-scenario, everybody lives au, sad sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-14
Updated: 2015-12-19
Packaged: 2017-12-23 10:25:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 20,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/925261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drcalvin/pseuds/drcalvin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if prince Escalus had arrived at the duel a little earlier?</p><p>Finding themselves thrown into prison - Mercutio and Tybalt for breaking the peace and Romeo for being a Montague near a fight - all three are in for a night of surprising revelations and uncomfortable truths. Nothing for re-evaluating your convictions like sharing a cell with your best friend and mortal enemy and knowing that either, or both, might end up executed at dawn.</p><p>And because this is Verona, no revelations are complete without a hefty dose of anger, violence and uncomfortable amounts of sexual tension.</p><p>[Based on the Hungarian musical version of Romeo and Julia]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is my brainchild, but Carmarthen helped raise it into what it is. Thank you for an amazing beta <3

Romeo Montague had grown up in Verona and loved his city with heartfelt sincerity. His was the Verona of gardens, of scented greenery and fountains glittering in the sun. His was also the Verona of rowdy taverns and back-alley dives, where the dice rattled in smoky rooms until the sun rose and drew the gamblers home. All of it – the elegance of the balls, the wildness of Carnival, the demure ladies and the reckless girls – Romeo embraced and cherished.

He had told his friends once that even the piss-stinking alleys and flea-infested whorehouses had their place in his heart. Truthfully, he had been drunk enough that only Benvolio's teasing brought those words back later, but he was glad to stand by them. All of his Verona, Romeo would love.

So he was resolved, until Prince Escalus showed him the dungeons of Verona Castle.

With a heavy sigh, Romeo lifted his gaze from the dirty stone floor which he had been contemplating for some time. He was sitting on a pallet filled with straw, the strands prickling him through the fabric of his drawers. He, the golden son of House Montague, had been thrown into this dungeon like a lowly criminal. 

Dirty, it was, and not from traces of revelry gone by. Certainly it was built from massive stone and held an aura of great age, yet it remained far from the glories of the ancient Romans and their marble memorials. This was stone which never strove towards heaven; this was dirt that was simply... dirt.

Shifting, Romeo grimaced again at the discomfort of the straw. 

Opposite him, on the second pallet, Mercutio lifted his head and offered Romeo a lightning-quick grin. "Hath m'lord decided to stop contemplating his own sad state and acknowledge this wretch, who is caught in an even deeper bog?"

Romeo clenched his jaw, refusing to answer his friend's teasing words. If Mercutio's tongue hadn't been so quick to lash out before, maybe...

In the corner the furthest from the door, the third occupant of the cell slowly unfolded his long legs and buried a hand in the tangle of hair hiding his face. Romeo pointedly did not turn his way. 

If Romeo chose silence, his friend had other things in mind, however. Mercutio's pointed smirk and the torchlight flickering in his light eyes revealed his interest, even before he spoke up in a lilting tone. "Sweet Tybalt stirs at last, released from Hypnos' chains! Will you alone join us in our imprisonment, or come also Lyssa and her sisters to visit? Either way, we will surely have a merry dance tonight!" 

At that, Romeo felt forced to break his silence. "No, Mercutio. No more of this."

"He speaks! He breathes! Enmity awakens the tongue, where friendship fails! Grudge –"

"Mercutio, please!"

"– thy name is Montague."

Clenching his fists, Romeo fought back the urge to rise and give his friend a good smack across his cheeky mouth. He would not; violence had brought them here, awaiting the prince's judgement. And had he not arrived, who knew how deep they might have landed? If Escalus' entourage had come but moments later, Romeo suspected that they would have stood before a judge far more terrible than whatever court dawn might gather.

It might still end that way for his friend and – Romeo closed his eyes and offered a silent prayer to the heavens – new-made kinsman.

"Please," Romeo attempted again, hoping to pour some oil on the restless waters of Mercutio's temper, before he truly did talk himself into the hangman's noose. "I am not angry with you –" He interrupted himself before Mercutio had time to do so. "No, truthfully, I am. Frightfully vexed and annoyed, in fact. But more than anything else, I worry." 

When Mercutio laughed this time, there was, perhaps, an echo of regret in the sound.

"You worry? For me?" With a saucy wink, Mercutio leaned back on the pallet, somehow managing to look like a pearly spirit lounging in freedom instead of a skinny youth imprisoned. "Thank you, my dear friend, but you need not worry. My lord and kinsman will not lay a finger on this fine neck; perhaps he shall smack my hand –" He held it out to Romeo, as if he was a lady waiting for his suitor's kiss, "– and surely he will lecture my ears off, but from death's gaping maw I am assuredly safe."

"Bullshit."

Romeo halted in his reply, mouth still open and finger lifted in admonition. That growled word had only one possible source. It was the one he had hoped would remain in listless melancholy until morning came and with it, their freedom or doom.

"Well, well, well..." Mercutio laughed again. 

He was used to hearing his friend's laughter, was Romeo; he had known it mocking and cheerful and drunk and triumphant, and many shades in between. But he could not recall ever hearing it so nasty before, and he shifted again on the scratchy straw, feeling a chill that had nothing to do with the stone surrounding them. "Keep the peace," he hissed at Mercutio.

"What is this? Did the kitten wake on the wrong side? And have his claws been clipped, his pride wounded? Tybalt, oh Tybalt, they take your blade and they take your freedom, but you remain Tybalt indeed. Bravo!" Mercutio pressed three fingers to his lips and threw a kiss towards the corner and turned it into a an insult with the roll of his eyes and the mouthed curse that followed, before raising his voice again. "You need speak but a word, and the world knows your character at once!"

"You prattle like the clown you are," Tybalt replied. His voice was rusty, the words pronounced too stiffly, as if he could not recall how to shape them. "But you still stink like cowardice."

Hidden in shadow with his hair concealing any expression, Tybalt fumbled against his chest as if searching for something. He found nothing: the prince had stripped them of all belongings, leaving Mercutio and Romeo only their underthings and Tybalt his trousers. 

Without the dark shirt and heavy coat he usually wore, Tybalt's limbs appeared disproportionate; not that he was starved lean, for his muscles stood out in wiry bands, but the arms were too long, as were the fingers curled fitfully over his bare chest. He pulled his legs back, the movement jittery, as if to put a wall of leather between himself and the world. Uncharitable as the thought was, the sight reminded Romeo of an insect crumpled in a corner; how odd, to think of someone stepping on Tybalt of the Capulets.

"Looking for your trinket? I think it lies in the square," Mercutio said. Tybalt's head jerked up, a pale sliver of face becoming visible. "No, pardon, I spoke too hastily and unwittingly voiced an untruth." He put his hands together, mocking a prayer, and inclined his head; had Romeo only spotted his expression then, he would have intervened, for he knew well that Capulets stung the worst when they appeared crushed. "By now it is either in a pawnbroker’s gentle care, or perhaps it was kicked away, trampled by the prince’s soldiers as they led away the rest of the Capulet spawn. In that case, it lies forgotten in the gutter, trashed and tarnished, just like your –"

"That is enough, Mercutio!" Romeo sprang up, stepping between the two men again. Although he was clad only in his linens, his tone of command was such that Mercutio fell silent. 

Meanwhile Tybalt, who had begun to rise, froze, remaining crouched; now he seemed a wary beast. His fingers slowly curled, as if around the handle of a dagger. 

"I love you like a brother, but I will hear no more of these words," Romeo said, "or I swear, upon all that I am and honor, that I will not greet you again. Nor see you, even, for you will be to me a scoundrel too foul to acknowledge." His heart beat a dangerous pulse, and each word tasted bitter as cold metal. But still he spoke: "I do not ask you to love this man." The choked noise from Tybalt drowned out Mercutio's affected gasp, but from the way his eyes widened and a flush rose on his cheeks, Romeo thought his message was taken seriously. Romeo could only hope that it would appeal to Mercutio's sense, instead of inflaming his pride and leading him even deeper into disaster. "However, Tybalt is my kinsman now, and as such –"

"No!" A vengeful shadow, a maddened dog. Tybalt rushed Romeo and grabbed his shoulders, trying to fling him against the wall with such force that he'd have left Romeo with a sizeable collection of bruises had Mercutio not thrown himself between them and the stone. Instead of feeling cold walls hit him, his friend's hand caught him, and it was Mercutio whose wind was knocked away, when the three of them impacted with a heavy thud.

"Shut up," Tybalt said, his a voice straining and cracking from agitation. "Do not speak – do not, you are not! You are no kin of mine!"

Wincing in sympathy at the sensation of Mercutio coughing at his back, Romeo managed to swallow his wrath once more. He dared to bring up his hand and clasp it loosely around Tybalt’s wrist, paying no attention to the way the grip on his shoulders grew painful. "It is the truth," he insisted. "Whatever your uncle might say, we have sworn it before God and each other. Julia is –"

"Shut up!" Tybalt pulled him closer, his spittle striking Romeo's face.

Holding his head high despite the manhandling, Romeo refused to let his anger free. He felt no guilt for old insults, and no longer cared for the tangle of their families' hatred. His love for Julia, his marriage to her, was honestly made and founded in love, and nothing would ever break it apart. 

Now, though he felt Tybalt’s breath on his face, and heard behind him Mercutio's own laboured breathing, he took refuge in the memory of Julia. Their anger burned like fever against his bare skin; it was as if they both exhaled hatred that rose dizzyingly around him – but from her presence within his soul, he managed to find unexpected resources of peace. 

The lines of rage marring Tybalt's features would once have annoyed him, and the snarled curses would have insulted the youthful Romeo of easy play and shifting temper. But now it was all too clumsy to truly reach him. What mattered mere words, when Julia was his wife? The gleam of madness in Tybalt's eyes – that was still a cause for worry. But to Romeo's surprise, beneath the anger... 

"Shut up! Don't _say_ anything more."

...he heard only fathoms of regret.

Their noses were almost touching. Behind him, Mercutio’s hands rested against his shoulderblades; thank the saints above, he held his tongue for the moment, although it might only be that he had no breath left to speak.

"I mean no disrespect," Romeo whispered, staring into Tybalt's eyes and trying to find the man hidden in their darkness. Where was the cousin Julia cared for, about whom she had spoken a few short words upon leaving the church? This man she had regretted to deceive with their secrecy, her lonely childhood's friend... Romeo failed to see him, but for Julia's sake, he would speak as if he did. "It is properly done," he promised, "and I shall cherish her and no other woman for the rest of my life."

Tybalt’s lips drew back, showing far too many teeth far too near for Romeo's comfort. It was as if his fury was stealing away all the remains of the man, leaving only the rabid alleycat of rumours and nasty taunts thrown at his back. As frightening as his strength and anger was, it was the recollection of the stubborn whispers of madness which rose in Romeo's mind. White teeth and eyes black with hatred, and it occurred to him that though they were unarmed, and Mercutio would aid him, it would not matter a whit if he could not break Tybalt's rage. For if the prince’s men returned in the morning, and found him with his throat chewed open and his heart torn out? Then Tybalt would show them this face again, only his lips would be stained with blood; and he was sure to consider death a worthy price to pay for the privilege to taste vengeance.

"Your locket is safe," he heard himself say, not knowing what impulse had given birth to the words. "All our belongings are in the care of the prince, you need not worry." There – a hint of surprise, a widening of his eyes, a man inside the armor of rage. "Pardon my friend for his thoughtless words; I can see that it is important to you. Does it contain your mother’s likeness?"

When Tybalt dropped him – immediate, unhesitant – Romeo fell, as agile as a sack of turnips, stumbling until Mercutio hooked his grip beneath his arm. 

"My.... Hah!" He stood before them, almost trembling, and it took Romeo several heartbeats to realize that Tybalt was shaking from silent laughter and nothing else. "My mother..." The laughter cracked loose, falling out of him like crumbling bricks from an ill-built house. "My mother! That would be _all_ I need!" And Tybalt turned from them, seeking support against the stone wall, shaking with his poison laughter.

"‘Tis not his mother, that sorrowful shade, nor his father, may the maggots chew at his restless soul," Mercutio said, his voice a sudden moist gust against Romeo’s ear, causing a trail of chills to work its way down his back. "I’ve spied it, once," he continued in the smallest whisper, "and ‘tis something far, far worse..."

Romeo tried to turn, found himself caught by his friend’s grip; he shivered when Mercutio walked his fingers up his naked belly, then dragged with sharp nails down his side. 

"What do you mean?" he whispered, hoping Tybalt would not overhear.

A tickle of laughter against his ear, the sudden press of warmth against his back before Mercutio spoke from too close: "Oh, Romeo, dear Romeo – you see nothing, know nothing, walk with an angel's innocence in Hell. Why do you think Tybalt hates you so? Not as a Montague, not as a wicked, teasing pest, but with deepest hatred that wishes only for your death?"

"I... Why?"

Mercutio's reply was intimate as a lover's kiss; had he spoken any other word, Romeo might not have heard, so softly was it said. But Julia's name was branded upon his heart and into his dreams, and it rang through him like a hammer upon a bell, until his soul shuddered from the weight of the truth.

Behind him, he felt his friend nod slowly, the movement brushing against Romeo's hair. "Yes, my friend. Such is his pitiful self." Mercutio pressed his lips against the side of his neck, and held for a moment while Romeo's world shook, before he drew back with a loud, vulgar smack. 

Tybalt laughter had ceased. In the dim cell, he seemed an unfinished statue emerging from the rough stone: all marble pallor and inky shadows, still and tragic as Death itself.

"Such jealousy you’ll find at the bottom of our sins, this tainted love that should not be," Mercutio continued, splaying his hand like a burning brand upon Romeo’s chest. He spoke slowly against the line of his ear, turning each word into a poisoned caress. "And you, Romeo! Taker of dreams and devourer of hope, who'd dance and break a world into dust with a few kisses alone. Take it away, finish the glittering ball with a theft unlike any in Verona! And so she stole you and we hated, and so she keeps you, and we cannot hate enough! That, my friend, is why Tybalt's hate will only grow with each new hour until the Prince puts an _end_ to this vile hatred and hangs him until he is dead, dead, dead!"

His voice had been rising steadily, so that Mercutio screamed the final words into Romeo’s ear. Although Romeo clenched his eyes shut and twisted away, it was not from the tone or the rancor. Rather, he could not stand the disgust in Mercutio's voice, the daggers aimed inwards as well as against Tybalt. And harshest burned the slips, the careless reveals, which he might not even have noticed, had not Julia's name given clarity to his world. Such a small error from this silver-tongued angel so used to dancing on the edge of the pit. Such heavy words, dragging them all down.

Romeo tore himself free, staggered away. He grabbed onto the bars of their prison door and clung to it with cold hands, needing the stability of the prince's iron. He dared not glance at either his friend or enemy – kinsman – until he had taken a few heaving breaths. 

When he finally looked back, he saw them both as he never had before.

Tybalt, proud Tybalt, half crumpled against the dirty wall. Dark Tybalt stripped of his sharp blade and insignia of rank. It left very little to fear, only a young man with sorrow in his face, whose stare burned with something other than hatred: jealousy.

Mercutio, his shining friend, the golden spirit who had cast off his crimson clothes rather than let his uncle's men lay hands on him. Now Mercutio too was stained with the pallor of regret, both desire and resignation too visible now that Romeo’s eyes were opened.

"I'm sorry," Romeo whispered and felt tears rising, tried to blink them back. "I'm – I did not know."

A ripple of a shrug along Mercutio's bony shoulders; a titter of a laugh. "Fret not, my dear. I did not meant for you to know; your world was to remain rosy, free and unfettered."

Mercutio had never spoken of it, but had shown his love in gestures beneath his laughter: in his loyalty and in a thousand affections great and small. Romeo had simply never seen, had been the fool in darkness – and was that not the tragedy itself, that only Julia could be the light by which he might at long last see his friend in truth?

When Mercutio sauntered up to him, he knew not whether to cringe away in shame or embrace him like a brother: the only love Romeo could offer, inadequate as it was. 

His friend simply patted him on the arm, much like a visiting uncle might. "Truly, my pet, it's not for you to worry your sweet head about. I may be foolish in love, but I am not blind. Maidens have always been your weakness." Wickedness filled Mercutio's smirk and he dragged a finger down the pulse-line of Romeo's throat. "Besides, with old Capulet crying dishonor and disgrace, I think you have other worries than my lovesick folly."

" _Have_ you dishonored her?"


	2. Chapter 2

" _Have_ you dishonored her?" 

They turned as one to their fellow prisoner.

Against the wall, Tybalt had sunk down until he was crouched upon his heels, arms wrapped around his legs. He frowned now at Romeo, with the sulky look of a little boy denied a sweet; only in the tension of whipcord muscles could one divine the threat of violence if the answer displeased.

"I would not. All was done properly: the friar wedded us before God, with Julia's own nurse as our witness."

When Mercutio scoffed at the very moment that Tybalt rolled his eyes, Romeo fought down a most inappropriate chuckle. He hid his amusement behind a question. "Why do you show such derision regarding a man of God? I have never had cause to doubt his honesty."

"That, my sweet Romeo, is because you fall in love for eternity, but recount your old conquests as one would a grocer's list." Feeling Romeo's elbow, and perhaps Tybalt's glare, Mercutio hastened to add: "Ah, before your heart was turned to Julia alone; indeed, never had you even mentioned matrimony until yesterday. In regards to the friar, though, 'tis simple: for a man of God, he is awfully keen on hearing about the sins of the flesh." Twirling to the side, Mercutio performed a tiny bow. "In particular if the poor regretful sinner possesses an agile tongue and flits, helplessly driven by his urges, from flower to flower, sampling their exotic nectar in a nightly frenzy until he wakes in the morning. With sobriety's chilling clarity, he realizes that sin weighs on him as surely as the dew now glistens on the petals of the innocent rose. Further realization dawns: his brother shall have him thrown from the house unless he hies himself to confession."

There was love, and broken hopes, but there was also still Mercutio; it was almost a pleasure to feel exasperation for him again. "How terrible. I'm sure it was a chore for you to speak of your plucked flowers at length." 

Mercutio was not daunted. "Should I, poor soul, hide my sins before the Lord? Nay, Romeo, unless you wish for me to fall into even deeper circles when my time is up – and for but one secret taste of your honey, I would, and gladly so – you cannot fault me for being thorough." 

He fluttered his eyelashes wildly and performed a curtsy of surprising agility. Though Romeo laughed on his cue, he knew his own amusement was half a mask; what hurt more was that Mercutio noticed it too. Perhaps tired of easy jests now that they failed their purpose, his words turned down a more risky path. 

"We should perhaps instead ask our fellow here why he doubts the friar's virtue?" Mercutio drawled. Sinuous, with elegance beyond what his state of undress ought to allow him, he walked a small circle before Tybalt, putting his feet onto the floor as if it was the richest carpet laid out for his pleasure alone.

Perhaps it was unwise to let Mercutio press on, but Romeo was still feeling overwhelmed at the revelations that had come upon him in this cell – and curiosity about Tybalt's secrets was a good distraction from the ache of knowing how he had hurt his dearest friend. So he waited and listened. 

Romeo had not thought of Tybalt of the Capulets as a whole man before. He had only seen in him the feud of Verona incarnate, considered him almost like a spirit of the street brawls and secret duels. Over the years, his sneering curses and ugly words had been repeated so often that Romeo had nearly forgotten the real threat they carried. Always the bubbling hatred surrounded Tybalt, a background noise scarcely noticed, like bumblebees in summer and church bells before Mass. 

Only now, when Julia had brought a different song into his life, did Romeo begin to perceive how hideous the sounds of his city were – the bumblebees fell from the sky, dying in the autumn of spite, while the bells tolled mournfully for the victims of hatred. And in this filthy prison cell, the tune had grown wholly dissonant; Mercutio, his laughing friend, hid pain beneath the quips. And Tybalt, the blade of the Capulets, had a rhythm of his own, more than senseless violence; in listening, he had heard regret beneath the anger, and in his heart, compassion grew whether he wished for it or not.

In looking at them with eyes seeing clearer by Julia's light, he had learned just enough to see his own blindness. Now, Romeo strained to hear and see even more, maybe even understand them both, and so he waited, and hoped that it would not all end in bloodshed.

Tybalt was frowning again, grimly silent and still, though his jaw worked incessantly during Mercutio's tirade.

"He cannot have wished to hear you speak of any of your petty little secrets – although I am certain that you have your share of those, oh reckless one. Alas, our friar, our keeper of secret sins, has developed a finer palate; see how he disdains even the rough-hewn confessions of our young lord Montague! No, your yowling will not interest him – and what else are you, but a tomcat screeching in the dark?" Mercutio laid a finger upon his pursed lips, mocking the contemplative stance of the philosopher. "Perhaps you dared confess your true sin? No, no, sweet Tybalt, glare not at me so; you'd keep her secrets into the grave, we all know that. Or at least into a whore's bed, where wine and illness make you sleep too deeply, while curious fingers pluck your secrets away." 

When Mercutio traced a simple pattern against his chest, Romeo thought again of the locket, and the anxiety inside him grew. But still he waited.

Tybalt's knuckles grew white, every sinew tense and trembling, although he too refrained from moving.

Making a small moue of disappointment at the lack of response, Mercutio tried another angle of attack. "I wonder, even, if it is his thirst for lustful tales that has offended you? It seems unlikely, for a man who prowls the brothels – or the alleys just outside – and stumbles into any bed, to share himself with wench or flea alike; yes, even the flea-bitten lad, if he feels ill-tempered enough. There is no passion there, however, and to recount them in any titillating way - hah! Pardon, I meant not to mock, my prickly friend, but you often let your blade serve instead of words, and your blade… ah, for all its fancy swirls, it served no better than to land you in this dreary cell, did it not? I doubt you have ever managed to recount its strikes and penetrations in a more captivating way than tonight." Inspecting his nails as if they were far more interesting than Tybalt's darkening frown, Mercutio's voice was calm when he asked his next question. "If not ardour, was it murder you were confessing?"

"What?" Romeo blinked in confusion, not believing he had heard right. 

For once ignoring him wholly, Mercutio continued, his gaze fastened on Tybalt with piercing fascination. "Why, you stare as if in incomprehension! Is the question too tangled to follow? Your tales are worthless, your lustful objects base – except the one for whom you'd rather cut your tongue out than let it wag about – and the only spark you have is rage. And freely, I admit: that one does burn like the flame of purgatory. So I ask, kitten-prince with clipped claws, did you unsheath them once before? Was yours the blade to claim your own sire's life, a mere two nights after he made fatherless this poor boy?" He cocked his head towards Romeo, though his focus shifted not a whit. "Is that the sin – is that the absolution even our friar would not grant?"

Rusty: that was the word which came to mind when Tybalt laughed. Rusty and unused; his honesty and surprise were both awkward, ugly things. But trapped in this little cell, they were both unmistakably present. 

"You believe I killed my father?" he asked, the words muffled, as he spoke them against his knees, having once more taken refuge behind long hair and gangly limbs. "You dare – aha, the quick Mercutio has finally aimed false. I should tell – hah, someone, anyone. A slug like you has enemies enough who'll listen!"

"I can lower myself to the likeness of an oyster, with some reservations, for at least their taste is said to inflame the passions. But a slug is neither quick nor fair, and so I refuse it, I deny it; for such slander Mercutio won't stand!"

"You think I care? Slug, fool, fish-headed jerk, I'll call you what I like!" 

"A great many words pass your lips, but a denial, I cannot hear..."

Upon seeing how Tybalt's fists clenched anew, Mercutio shifted his stance, arms ready and knees unlocked. Romeo drew himself up, wondering if this was what they had been heading towards all along.

Then Tybalt lifted his head, and bared his teeth at them; not a smile, but not an attack either. "You can't see the truth until it comes out and bites you, can't you? I didn't need to do anything when old Montague's liege-men were so eager to do the deed! Or why the hell do you think the prince listened to Capulet's complaints and had that band exiled from Verona?"

"Ah well... one could always hope," Mercutio said with a playful sigh. "It would have been a neat and pretty resolution to my quandary: why would Tybalt hate the man of God? It cannot be envy of his virtue, for our friar struggles with it daily and so does not annoy us sinners. It cannot be –"

"Oh, shut your gob!" Tybalt pounded his fist against the stone floor, as if he was hammering each word into a weapon. "I have my reasons and they are simple: the friar claims to know the lore of herbs and the lore of God, and he prattles incessantly about both when neither helps a shit!" He spat at Mercutio, whose quick feet danced him out of range. "I've drunk his concoctions, each one viler than the other – nothing! I've listened to his prayers and his songs and breathed that damned incense he burns and _it changes nothing_!"

For once, Mercutio had no reply to give; he opened his mouth once as if to answer, then closed it again and turned his face upwards to gaze at the rough-hewn roof of stone. Tybalt too was still, his words spent and only his heaving breath and white-clenched hand revealing the emotions still roiling inside him. 

Romeo glanced from one to the other, not quite grasping the source of this apparently shared bitterness between two such disparate spirits. 

As far as he could recall, the friar had always been a good man. If he had his share of doubts and his medicines did not always work, so what? No medicines did, no prayer was answered every time. His intentions were the finest. And he had helped Romeo gain Julia; nothing could mean more than that sainted deed.

"I am an eccentric," Mercutio proclaimed, "a free spirit who walks a path your simple mind cannot follow or comprehend." He waved his fingers dismissively at Tybalt. "This poor fellow is merely mad; driven so by the sins of his soul, no doubt, but lost and haunted nevertheless."

"No more mad than the rest of this town," Tybalt muttered. 

To Romeo it sounded less like a refusal of the description than a tired acceptance of it. Hesitantly, he cleared his throat. "Even if you do not trust the word of the friar, and feel understandably reluctant to trust the word of a Montague... I would still assure you that my intentions towards Julia, as well as my conduct, have been entirely honorable and will remain so."

"Shut up! You have no right to mention her name, and that you'd dare imagine you might touch her – " 

Only when Tybalt dug his nails into the back of his hand did Romeo realize that he was wounded; the skin tore too easily, and clear liquid welled up around his fingers. 

"I'll die before I allow that!" he snarled.

"Then by all means," Mercutio replied, his voice silken-soft, "die!"

Seeing Tybalt leap from the wall with his mouth open in silent fury, his body uncoiling like a whip, was like seeing one of the demons from the church wall come to sudden life: terrible, yet enchanting in its pure fury. Mercutio caught him, bent beneath the assault like the willow in the storm, then twirled them around and they both fell with a bone-rattling clamor upon the stone floor. Tybalt was beneath, Mercutio above, both their eyes shining with equal rage. Though Tybalt lost his breath in the landing, he'd wrapped one long-fingered hand around Mercutio's throat, and he squeezed grimly. His other hand, the wounded one, was caught by Mercutio, who pressed it with all his weight towards the floor. With his left, he grasped Tybalt's face, slowly working the thumb upwards and applying more and more pressure beneath his eye. The jester's mask had fallen from him, and an anger almost as deep as Tybalt's rage filled Mercutio's bright eyes.

"Have you both lost your wits?" Romeo yelled. "You cannot – no, let him go!"

Neither combatant listened to him. When he tried to wrench Mercutio away from his prey, he only caused him to lose his grip on Tybalt. Seizing the opening, Tybalt in turn tore his hand free and applied himself to choking the life out of Mercutio. 

"Tybalt!" Romeo fell to his knees beside them and yanked at his arms. But Tybalt's muscles were like steel and madness filled his grin; Romeo's actions were futile, and he heard again the rising clamor of Verona's spite rise to fill the air inside their darkened cell. Death and hatred and no end to this devilish dance. 

Even when trapped, Mercutio was not safe to discount from a battle. His fist came as a surprise to Romeo, but more so to Tybalt, who caught its full force with the side of his face. Though Tybalt swore and lurched to the side, he pushed back and kept his hold, putting one knee atop Mercutio, pressing him down with his body-weight and increasing the pressure of his grip – digging nails and fingers into the tender skin around the windpipe despite the hammering on his shoulders – he continued to squeeze air and life from Mercutio.

Romeo needed to break that grip immediately. Kneeling next to them, sparing half a moment to feel gratitude at Tybalt's obsessive focus, Romeo swung his arm, the movement beginning from the shoulder as his training master had taught him, no blade in hand but making the arm itself his weapon. Not aiming at Tybalt's face or chest, Romeo swung instead against the vulnerable point of the elbow. 

He had restrained himself, not wishing to tear or break anything, but there was still a nasty satisfaction when Tybalt released an ugly howl and lost his grip on Mercutio, curling up to protect himself.

Mercutio – smiling, jesting Mercutio whose tongue was always sharper than his knife, but whose knife had never rusted in its sheath – rolled over, shaking Tybalt off and did not hesitate to bring his own fists back into play, even as he paid for it by taking a vicious swipe from Tybalt. Nevertheless, he caught Tybalt and made a fair try at driving him headfirst into the stone, before Romeo tackled him aside.

"Have you gone utterly mad?" Romeo cried, roughly shaking Mercutio when they came to a stop on the floor, his friend pinned beneath him. "If you kill him, the prince _will_ take your head, kin or not!" 

"And if I don't," Mercutio growled, his face twisted beyond recognition, "this hatred will eat my soul!" 

Not understanding, clinging with all his weight to Mercutio's struggling form, Romeo could only hold him tighter and ask: "But why? What has he done to hurt you so?"

"He lives! He breathes, he prowls the night yowling like a beast, and by God, I intend to skin him like one!" Suddenly, Mercutio stilled until Romeo could only feel his heaving breath. "And if I did not have _him_ to hate..." The glitter in his eyes changed, grew soft, and his words died away.

The kiss took Romeo by surprise; he'd partially been lying upon Mercutio, and found him suddenly too close, lips pressing against his own, dry and chapped and too demanding. He knew not how to react until his friend pushed him off and turned away so that his copper hair swept against the grimy stone. And his voice, so famed for its eloquence, shrank to a whisper hanging drily in the air, as grief had quenched even Mercutio's verbosity: "Then who could I hate instead?"

When Romeo tried to approach him, speaking some thoughtless platitude, Mercutio pushed him away, annoyance clear in the movement. He froze, though, as Romeo grasped his hand, and glanced quickly aside – following his gaze, Romeo saw Tybalt staring at them, disdain easily read in the curl of his lips, but no violence forthcoming for the moment. 

Then, in that quick change of temper that fit his name so well, Mercutio's brows smoothed out and he straightened. Beckoning with a regal hand, his lips curved as Romeo shuffled closer to attempt an apology for the hurt he had not even known he had caused.

"Shh, my dear," Mercutio said and graced him with a glimpse of teeth. "You forget whose sons we are, we children of Verona... weaned on revenge, feasting on conflict each day." 

"I didn't –"

"No. You didn't." Brushing his knuckles down his cheek, Mercutio shook his head as if he were a fond uncle amused at a child's folly. "You grew in a different garden." And then, lips still curved so sweetly, he struck: one punch only, but delivered without mercy, so that the world grew dark and wavering to Romeo before hot pain bloomed in his gut. 

"So let me now clear this weed away, so that your rosy path continues to lie smooth before you and the dainty feet of your darling wife!"

Mercutio dropped him, and although Romeo tried to catch his leg and hold him back, he strode with bunched fists back to the feud which seemed destined to push them all into the grave. 

Romeo twisted, but before he could rise, he needed to draw a deeper breath; driven by necessity and terror for his friend, he closed his eyes and tried to force his body back under control again. What fears he'd felt only days before, shapeless and vague, were taking cruel shape only a few arm's lengths away and he refused – refused with all the new-kindled hope that Julia's love had graced him with – to see his friend cold and dead, whether in this wretched cell or before the Prince's court! He heard a challenge called – an answering curse – and then Mercutio and Tybalt were upon each other again. 

There was no more time for pain or self-pity now, not with Tybalt and Mercutio both going for the kill. Romeo knew he had only moments before blood would be spilled. He thought vaguely of calling for a guard, but if they had not already heard this clamor... Or was this the prince's verdict – let already burned hands do the deed on their own, and then he need only sweep up the ashes?

If that was Escalus' hope, then Romeo would change the rules, as he had thrown away his old allegiances for Julia's bright smile. If this ugliness was the truth of Verona, then he had refused it in the same moment he spoken the oaths of marriage, and he'd not see his friend throw himself upon the flames of hatred. He stood, stumbled, but managed to do so in the right direction. 

Mercutio had Tybalt pressed against a wall, going for his eyes, his mouth moving. For the first time in Romeo's memory those quick lips twisted with ugliness, ugly enough that he knew without hearing that nothing but spite spilled forth from his friend. 

Tybalt fought in silence, bucked beneath Mercutio's grip, clawing and snapping with the ferocity of the obsessed. 

" _Ah!_ You rabid cur!" 

Blood stained Tybalt's teeth; not much, but enough to turn his visage nightmarish and give an air of triumph to his stance, although he remained trapped. 

Mercutio, with white-lipped anger in place of his usual quick words, fumbled with his bloodied hand for Tybalt's throat, the other arm locking his opponent in place. While Tybalt's hands were trapped between them, the position hardly seemed to bother him. He was silent, but the mocking grin remained when he snapped his teeth at Mercutio, as if too far gone to even feel the lack of air.

Romeo found he could stand steady again, could think and act, though he doubted he had the strength to go between those two and come away unscathed. At least he need not attempt to hide his presence; Mercutio saw only Tybalt's death, and if Tybalt saw anything at all... Well, whatever hatred he might bear towards Romeo Montague, in his direction he threw not a single glance.

Mercutio's back was open and he seemed to lack the instinct to defend himself against his friend; perhaps a safer bet than Romeo would have guessed. For it was proving impossible for him to find a spot he might attack, in a way he knew would have effect but not do too much damage. A tackle? Yes, he could try that, but where would it land them – Romeo would wring Mercutio away for a moment, Tybalt might attack them or not, but it would not end the fight. And yet he hesitated, for Romeo knew that to break his friend's fighting resolve… Whether Tybalt was kin or not, the cost would be too high. Romeo could see already the bruises that would bloom on Mercutio's back if they fought in earnest, and it pained him to imagine turning them real. 

Then he spotted a tear in Mercutio's linens: a small thing, surely a result of their earlier fight. But it gave him another angle of attack. Romeo recalled youthful laughter, flights over spiked fences and afternoon plans derailed by embarrassed pain not even Mercutio's antics could mask. 

It was far preferable to any other avenue open to him under the circumstances. Romeo steeled himself, then stepped forward and in the same motion grabbed the fabric of Mercutio's drawers and tore with all his might. He feared for a moment the linen would be too sturdy, but as soon as the rip widened beneath the seam, the resistance lessened. With a last rending noise, Romeo tore apart Mercutio's drawers along the right leg. Using his new handhold, assured that now at least he would have his friend's full attention, he yanked back the flap of fabric.

The sound Mercutio made, reminiscent of a trampled-upon mouse, would have had him wincing in sympathy any other day; but at that moment, Romeo attempted to hide his grin of triumph even as his friend crumpled to the floor.

Tybalt blinked at empty air, his hands grasping at nothing for a few moments even as his throat struggled for wheezing breath. Moving slowly as if walking through a dream, he turned his face to one side, there spying only the empty corner of the cell, and then to the other. His gaze fell upon Romeo, and he blinked again; too slow, as was the movement when he lifted his hand to wipe his mouth, coughing and spitting suddenly as he sank back towards the wall. There was an ugly swelling beneath his left eye, and Mercutio's nails had left a deep gouge at the base of his nose. At least nothing looked broken – except hopefully his mindless rage. 

Romeo stepped closer, putting himself between Tybalt and Mercutio's prone form. Here, he dared attempt no violence at all, for he knew which reaction that would cause. But if words had been the connection between himself and Mercutio and a physical attack was unexpected enough to wrench his friend out of his anger, the opposite had been the case with Tybalt. Violence and spite had been the only methods of communication between their houses, and Romeo strongly doubted anyone had tried recently to apply to Tybalt's good sense. Calm words had seemed to shake him earlier, and perhaps they would suffice again, at least to hold him at bay until morning and their final judgement.

"There is no need to fight," Romeo said, trying to keep his voice gentle. "I bear no enmity against you. If tomorrow comes and the prince hears your uncle's plea, I shall be disgraced and punished – if he hears mine and Julia's, we shall be cousins. Will you not lay your anger to rest for one night?"

Still with that queer emptiness in his expression, Tybalt slowly shook his head. "She is everything," he said, his words thick. "You take too much, Montague." This time, when his eyelids fluttered, some animation returned to his face; lines appeared on his brow, his lips grew thinner, and his hands lowered, forming into fists.

"I have not taken anything," Romeo insisted, glad that Tybalt was arguing with words, instead of searching for Mercutio with violence. "Julia has given me her heart freely."

"Liar," he sighed, exhaustion weighting the word.

"How? What could I offer her? Coin, she has! A peaceful marriage – hah, look at us now, on the day after our wedding! Our families feud, her father hates me, and my mother shall..." Romeo shuddered, the vision of his mother's rage one he had done his best to ignore. "Frankly, my mother might just do your task for you and spare you the trouble! What could I _possibly_ offer Julia, but my honest love? How could I force her to give me anything at all?"

Tybalt shook his head, squeezing his eyes shut. "No. You lie, you must lie. She would not." He bit his lip and lifted his abused hand, staring down at the wounds left on it. The skin around two knuckles had broken open in the fight, and the half-moons of his nails had left a nasty mark "She must not be..."

"She is a woman," Romeo said, gently, but with firm rebuke. "No longer a little girl. Tybalt, let her – let her grow free. Please. Let her choose." 

He had not looked at Mercutio; did not dare to, honestly, though he could hear him move behind them. Keeping his gaze locked on Tybalt, as if he was a wild animal, Romeo walked sideways to the cell bars. The prince had left them water, although – perhaps suspecting that a struggle might take place – he had placed the buckets outside the cell. Still keeping his gaze locked with Tybalt's, Romeo crouched and cupped his hand in the cool water. 

"Let me help you." Romeo rose, hands carefully clasped together. Though the water trickled away as he walked carefully towards Tybalt, he knew it was not the liquid itself but the offer of aid which must begin to heal these wounds. "Please."

"You want to take this from me too?" Tybalt asked, raking his nails over the hurt hand.

"Why does it have to be taking?" Romeo asked, letting the few remaining drops fall upon Tybalt's hand. "Let me give you, instead, what little balm I can."

Though he winced as if it was acid instead of water, Tybalt allowed the gesture; even allowed Romeo to carefully push his clawing hand away. Only when Romeo attempted to touch his wounded hand to see the extent of the damage, did he refuse.

Nodding and doing his best to keep his smile gentle, Romeo withdrew. At last he dared glance back over his shoulder to see how Mercutio fared.

He was no longer on the floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again to Carmarthen, you have the patience of an angel and the editing eye of a hawk!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is enormously delayed. I wrote all the fic long ago, but then my head fell down in a bad space and it became increasingly difficult to get back to it. A recent comment lit a fire under me and I figured it was better to post it with the flaws in have, instead of let it languish in eternal wip because I can't make it perfect. 
> 
> So, here we go!

"Am I being recalled again?" Mercutio waved to them both, brittle gaiety covering every trace of his recent embarrassment.

"I wish I could forget you," Tybalt muttered, but remained slumped against the wall, making no move to incite further violence. 

Mercutio lay stretched out along the straw-covered pallet, supporting his head on one arm; the other held his torn drawers and spun them lazily in the air above. One leg was stretched out in front of him, the other bent into a vee, the entire pose bringing to mind a Roman statue in the Montague courtyard. That one, however, had covered with stony folds of marble fabric what Mercutio displayed in shameless, copper-crowned glory. 

He had scrapes and nasty marks along his throat. There was a deepening bruise on his chest and the twist of his lips when he met Romeo's eyes was not entirely friendly.

Nevertheless, Romeo could not look upon Mercutio with anything but fondness, and he made no attempt to hide this emotion from his face.

"Oh, for..." Mercutio rolled his eyes, twirled the scrap of fabric faster, then threw it with frightening accuracy at Romeo's face. "Do not goggle at me like that! Or I shall quite forget that I am vexed."

"So am I," Romeo sputtered, pulling the drawers away and looking upon them for a moment. Then, glancing at Mercutio, back at Tybalt, and lastly down at the linen in his hand, he shook his head and laughed. "Oh, Mercutio, you are..."

"Laughs, he does," Mercutio said with an air of tragedy, turning his eyes heavenwards, "laughs, after he has near unmanned me!"

"From what I can see, all is in working order." Tearing off a strip of fabric from the lower leg-end, Romeo then dared put a question to Tybalt. "Could you consent to using this? That burn of yours looks nasty."

When Tybalt only shrugged and made his way over to the other pallet, sagging down on it in grumpy exhaustion, Romeo dipped the strip in water. 

"I have used the leftmost bucket," Romeo remarked, not daring to let the silence hang for too long. "If either of you wish to drink, there are two untouched beside it."

"Pour it out. It’s better that we rot away in here," said Tybalt, neither sneering nor growling for once, only mentioning it with the air of one remarking upon lingering bad weather.

"I think Julia would mourn two of us," Romeo dared answer, keeping a close eye on his reaction. A wince, but no more for the moment. "And she'd not have the chance to ever hear Mercutio's wit, which would be a pity. I think it would entertain her a great deal."

That earned him a annoyed tsk from Mercutio. "A court jester, am I now?"

"Only if the court is yours," Romeo promised, "for surely, if you wished, you'd be the emperor of jests!" 

A beat of silence, then Mercutio favored him with a saucy wink. Romeo felt the grip around his heart ease a little; he would be forgiven. He dipped the other part of the torn drawers into the water, and offered the cloth to Mercutio, who accepted it as if it was an offering to a pagan god.

Again, Romeo soaked a piece of cloth, and went gingerly to stand before the pallet where Tybalt perched. The other man would not look up at him, and Romeo stood for a few moments in awkward silence before Mercutio's silent grimaces prodded him into speech.

"May I?" It struck Romeo that this might have been what the Romans of old had felt, those who had cared for the lions in the arena: a fascination and a wariness mixed, knowing that the tired beast might at any moment turn on them with unforgiving fangs. But while Tybalt sighed in annoyance and still did not meet his eyes, he allowed Romeo to bind the wet cloth around his hand, barely twitching when he drew it tight. 

Romeo then inspected Mercutio's wounds, first washing the marks left by nails, then soaking the fabric again and applying it to the bite on his arm.

"For being the Prince of Cats, your nips have more of a dog’s bite than I'd expected," Mercutio grumbled, hissing when Romeo's ministrations tore open a forming scab.

"For being such a vile little shit, you don't taste nearly rotten enough," Tybalt retorted.

"If that is the competition," Mercutio stage-whispered to Romeo, "I fear I shall quite overwhelm poor Julia with my sparkling words. Why, will she even recognize a joke that does not contain plain vulgarity?"

"If you're saying –"

"Mercutio is prattling," Romeo interrupted sternly. "He _does_ that. You cannot grow upset at every taunt that escapes him, or you'll lose your hair from all that choler!"

"I'll feel all the choler I want," Tybalt spat.

Romeo turned towards him, keeping one hand on Mercutio's arm; holding his friend in place, even as he readied himself in case he must defend him.

"Could you not attempt to feel at least a little joy? Today, for Julia?"

"What joy? Her husband is in prison," Mercutio mumbled. “Her cousin stands before the noose. I fear that your blushing – ow. Ow!" With a put-upon sigh, he added: "Pardon."

Romeo released the grip around the bitten arm, patted Mercutio's shoulder in apology, and cocked his head at Tybalt. 

"Perhaps I am being silly, but, you must forgive me – I too am in love." Romeo stood up from the pallet, taking the five steps to Tybalt's end of the cell, then turning and walking back; not pacing, exactly, but unable to hold still when his thoughts turned at long last wholly to his beloved. "Should I not become loves fool for my Julia? If she could be dishonored by any earthly thing, it would be by the offer of any less than my entire regard and devotion. And truthfully, I cannot contain my joy, not even in these circumstances. I have no wish nor reason to even try!" 

He closed his eyes, imagining Julia's voice, her smile, the sweet scent of her hair. Even the dank cell seemed to brighten, the air suddenly tasting less stale. "No, Tybalt.... Despite all the trouble it has caused, I cannot regret our love for a moment. Whatever comes, I'll always have the image of her eyes when I returned her home, when she clutched my hand close before entering for the first time her father's house as a bride. She smiled at me with her mouth, but she _sang_ to me with her soul." Upon passing Mercutio, he brushed his hand against the copper locks; an apology, a comfort, but never a denial of the truth. 

How he loved his friend for swallowing his pain and answering him with a genuine smile and a mouthed 'congratulations'. What regret he could not hide gleamed briefly in pale eyes; he lowered his lids and did not allow Romeo to see more than a brief flash of envy for long.

"If you care for her, will you refuse her that joy? She is married, yes, but she has married for love! Is that not the finest thing in the world?" Perhaps his heart overrode his good sense; whatever the reason, Romeo flung himself down on the pallet next to Tybalt, and even dared to sling an arm around his shoulder. He felt the man grow stiff, but still graced him with his truest smile. He was heartened to see confusion override Tybalt's sour face.

"I wish not to hurt you," he continued, "I wish not to steal or take – but Julia is not a treasure of dead gold! How could I steal her, when she was the one to ask for my hand?"

"She –" Tybalt choked on the word, and beneath his arm, Romeo felt a tremor begin. 

Hurrying on, Romeo continued, "Ours was a short meeting, but it was a meeting of souls. Tybalt." He dared lay a hand above the line of the bandage and was relieved when Tybalt did not bold. "She spoke briefly of you, when we left the church. She regretted that this secrecy would tear her family apart. I know she wishes to receive your blessings." Which was perhaps putting a slightly nicer spin on it than Julia had intended, but they really had not had much time for elaborate discussions – and Romeo was not lying about Julia's wish for peace within, as well as between, their families. "But we had no choice, do you not see? If a done thing, they might rant and they might threaten, but this bond before God lasts eternally. If we had tried to convince them first, I know not what would have come our way: convent for her, disgrace for me, imprisonment for us both! Please, I beg you...for Julia's joy..." He fell silent, knowing he was balancing above a gorge, seeing in Tybalt's sharp profile and shuttered eyes a great, silent struggle, and fearing that one false word would set him off into a rage.

"She asked you first?"

"Demanded it," Romeo admitted. "She is not reckless, nor foolish enough to trust me for my smile alone. We both knew, I think, that being Montague and Capulet, there was never a time for simple sport between us."

"She'd mention me? Still?"

When Romeo nodded, Tybalt's face crumpled. He pressed his bandaged fist to his lips, a gleam gathering beneath his dark lashes.

"I'm sorry."

Tybalt did not answer, only fumbled at his chest – Romeo recalled again the necklace – and when he failed to find it, hunched tighter, a choked whine escaping him.

Romeo cast a pleading eye towards Mercutio, but found no support. His friend was watching in silence, his face judging, but he made no move to interfere or speak. 

"She was the last thing..." Tybalt managed, his voice wavering wildly, "the only thing I had left."

"But Julia is no thing," Romeo reminded him again, gently, his hand upon Tybalt's shoulder as kind as he could make it.

"Hah, no indeed. She is a woman." Tybalt gasped, once, then pressed bandaged fist and sharp teeth together; the muscles of his face straining, but neither tears nor sobs made it free. 

"Please," Romeo said, tugging softly at his hand. "She'd not want this, I am certain. You'll always remain Julia's kin; if that not be enough for love, at least know that it is the finest blood to share. The memories you have –" 

Tybalt's scoff was muffled by his hand, but the venom in it was unmistakable, and the lines around his eyes deepened.

Perhaps it was those lines, bringing to mind a more aged face, that made Romeo recall the nurse; the fondness in her voice as she spoke of the child she'd once raised. No matter how adorable that girl had been, nurse's awkward little frog, she was not even half of Julia. For one who loved the whole, as man loved woman... 

Romeo's words dried up on his tongue. His heart still shone with love's bright sun, but his mind grew heavy as he considered Tybalt, hatred eating him from within, and Mercutio, whose taunts and laughs were no longer enough to hide the disappointment etched so sharply in his soul.

What good were words?

"I am the broken thing," Tybalt said at last, hand falling heavily into his lap. H stared down at his abused flesh, as if it held all the secrets he was searching. 

Romeo did not think he imagined the stain of pink on the cloth. The laughter that cracked from Tybalts throat rang too much of madness. He tried to pull him closer, to catch his eyes and find something, anything, to say before Tybalt broke himself down until only that black fury remained.

It was like moving an ill-made marble statue, attempting to touch Tybalt: blankness in his eyes, bleak despair cut into every shadow and angle of his face, the sharp features losing their coherence until he seemed only a litany of pain in all its different aspects. 

"There are so many other things," Romeo said, for lack of other words to speak. "I have searched too, in despair, but I found my light where I least thought to love. Maybe you, too..."

He did not resist now now, Tybalt, only turned his head and stared at Romeo from unseeing eyes. "There is nothing else." The bleakness of his voice was mirrored by the hunch of his shoulders, the way he drew himself together, an animal crouching away from pain. "There's never been anything."

"You do not know –"

Now, Tybalt spoke, the words dragged from him. "A daughter only, a stain on his house... grow strong, my boy, _win_ over them all. Take her." He choked, suddenly, as if he'd tasted something foul. "She is a woman," he snarled, spittle dripping like acid along with the words, "born in sin, cursed by blood. And I am even –" He pressed his hand to his mouth again and trembled in a way that made Romeo fear the words unsaid, even through the anger he felt regarding such insults to Julia. 

Before he had time to blunder, to speak too harshly in her defence, Mercutio rose from his straw-filled bed. Sauntered over and stood before them, fists pressed against his hips, as if he needed a reminder to keep them down. For Mercutio, at least, words had always flown easily from his lips.

"Your error lies in not seeing, even when the truth burns like a lighthouse before you," Mercutio drawled. "Instead, you chose to spit the same tired lines year after year. How you vex me! With those eyes you'd rather gouge out than allowing to see, with this anger you drown in like other men dive into their cups! You accuse me, you tear and you bite, hah, but does your rage ever touch the true sinners?" He then bent closer, snapping a finger against the swelling on Tybalt's face, and whispered to him in with a snarl worthy of the man himself. "Do you truly think you are alone in suffering? Can you in the same breath claim to love that woman and then curse her blood? When even I, having only spied her from the distance of a masquerade, knowing her only through rumour's hazy tale, know her to be of better make than the swamp in which she grew? The flower of the Capulets, you all say; the one smile to steal Romeo away; and you'd dare paint her with the same brush that drew your flawed self into being?"

"How dare you – she was pure," Tybalt hissed, "and he tried to ruin her! He must have! For Julia is not –! She's not like other women."

"What glory is there in difference?" Mercutio asked, tilting his head in false innocence. "Do you not know this in the agony of your falls, the weakness of your desires, and the hatred of your own blood?" 

"You talk and you talk and yet nothing at all!" 

"Yes... that is what I do. Well-spotted, sweetling; what a shame you still do not comprehend." Mercutio's voice was a drawl, the amusement so rich that Romeo could barely comprehend the searing bitterness of the words said in that jesting tone. 

"I prattle and I joke. It is what I do. What else should I aim my fine-honed words at, do you suggest? A spare like myself," Mercutio mused, "a weak-willed boy, bending like the willow-tree, not fond enough of riding: too easily shod and tamed." He drew his finger along the side of Tybalt's face, a nail scraping on the upstroke, but two gentle fingers soothing on the return. "A spare. But 'tis good to have one, for even healthy boys might die, and sweet daughters might turn barren. Let us, then, raise the spares in the mires of our hatred, while the golden children are sheltered in the hope that their loins will bear a rewarding fruit as the years turn and grind their shadows into blades." His eyes looked neither at Romeo nor Tybalt now, staring into a distance scene hidden within the stony walls.

"He bequeathed me his hatred," Tybalt whispered, "as she gave me her greed for more, for power, for the son they never had and the inheritance that waited. I could have been, in their eyes, a proper Capulet."

"Ah yes, that much I shall own: your blindness you have inherited the proper way." Mercutio chuckled and shook his head. "Truly, theirs might have been more debilitating yet, if they could not see the difference between her gold and your dross…."

"That grace of insight was at least given to me," Tybalt said, with something nearing pride even though his eyes gleamed and his shoulders were hunched high against the world.

Mercutio caressed his face, ghosting a thumb along the bruise, and this time he used no nails at all. "That much was graced to us both, though I was in this at least raised with honesty. Only if he'd fallen, if my brother had faltered and died... Alas, the willow can keep bending in disgrace, for he lives and fights like a proper son of Verona!" Mercutio shrugged and laughed; it rang with falseness and loss. "I never wished to be a prince of this world either way. To breed little sows and cocky boars for the name and name alone – no, that is not Mercutio. Better to dance free, fence wild, to know the thrill of the rapier and the flavor of wit."

It was too much for Romeo, to see them so alike in sorrow and bitter smiles, to know that even if they escaped the darkness of the cell their chains would not easily release. How had they ended here? All three of them captured beneath a city which had cradled him, its golden son, since he could begin to totter along its paved streets? How long had there been prison walls around them all – never mentioned, impossible to tear down… Until Julia arrived and all the links of hatred's chain quaked and shattered; freeing Romeo and cutting his friends. And as he was free, so he had a duty to speak up.

"They were wrong, then, all who said such things," Romeo said, speaking as much to his own past self as to Mercutio and Tybalt. "There is so much more to you, to you both, than what your families might want. Julia's worth lies far beyond her potential as a bargaining chip. And have you ever defended her from such a – from being so horribly cheapened! Have you that, Tybalt, I will happily call you my dear cousin. But what I cannot see," Romeo continued, " what makes no sense, is that if you know their lack of worth… and if you know how falsely they judge Julia. Then why can you not see that they have undervalued your own self too?" 

Tybalt did not answer.

Mercutio did, in a language born from their long friendship. He graced Romeo with a fond glance, but also a shake of his head, pity written in every line of his body. 

The pity burned, so that Romeo thought he might break into tears, cursing his own lack of golden phrases and perfect words. "It is not fair." That he should have found love and escaped the heavy chains of Verona, only to see his own freedom send them whipping towards these two instead: one he called friend and one he might grow to name cousin with true regard. "None of it is fair."

"Isn't it?" Tybalt's movements were too slow, too jerky, and his eyelids drooped even as life began to bleed back into his pale visage. "If I'm broken – if he's bent –" His hand was almost a slap upon Romeo's chest, long fingers cold with sweat and heavy like inherited sin. "It works out so well. Our death, her joy. No, the only thing unfair is you. How could you ever deserve her: gutter-dog, vilest thief, accursed in blood and name. You can never, ever earn her... A filthy beast, vile enough you'd be better put down!" 

Now his hands were roving, and Romeo leaned carefully away, not certain what Tybalt searched for, or what he'd do if he found it.

"She loves you. She'll have you." Tybalt's hands both wandered up his face, touched brow and nose, brushed over lips and trembled as they followed the line of his throat down, ever further down.

"You love her," Mercutio whispered, and now his hand tousled in Romeo's hair, tugged and teased and played gently along his nape. "You'll have her."

They loved each other, Romeo and Julia, and they'd have each other. Whatever the prince might do, whatever his mother or old Capulet would say, this, Romeo knew for truth: they'd have each other, bride and groom, and nothing on earth would keep him and Julia apart. 

Perhaps that was why his heart remained silent when Tybalt's hands slid over his body, tasting him with fingers and with eyes, as if he wished to know him as intimately as Julia would. Perhaps that was why Romeo felt neither hesitation nor guilt; for they would have each other, while these two broken souls would have none at all, even if morning came with gentle favours for those who had loved and vowed in secrecy. 

Romeo let his shoulders relax and laid his hands upon Tybalt’s. He felt as if he was being slowly peeled apart by those curious fingers mapping his skin and muscles, pressing down to count his ribs and circle lightly up around his shoulders. There was no ill-will in this touch, and Romeo allowed his head to fall back into Mercutio's waiting grip. 

"What is she, that you'd love her?" Mercutio pressed lips to his brow, kissing softly along the hollow of his eye; it was beneath his kiss that Romeo was made aware of his own tears leaking slowly. It was Mercutio’s quick tongue that flitted out to capture them and though they did not remark upon it, both knew that it was in part for his broken heart they were spilled. 

"Everything." And in that reply he knew it, at last, the loss he'd brought unwittingly upon these two – for what would Romeo be, without Julia? How would he walk through the garden and the ruins and the city palaces standing so proud, if she was not his to cherish and to love? 

A movement from the corner of his eye, the whisper of a sound, and Romeo became aware suddenly of Mercutio's hand moving against his own flesh, a surprise despite all. He must have made some shocked sound, for his friend stopped at once, withdrawing without a word. Mercutio’s supporting hand slipped from Romeo's head, until he must use his own power if he wished to remain upright.

He chose not to do so, falling against the hard pallet, straw prickling against his back. He twisted to the side, lips hesitating over unvoiced words.

Romeo became aware of the warmth from Tybalt's hands only when the lack of them made goosebumps rise upon his skin. The cold was a pressure on him, heavy like the weight of Mercutio's eyes. He glanced up, wanted the warmth of their closeness, knowing that this little sin was all he could offer as balm. When his hand brushed a bare knee, dared strive further up the line of his thigh, it was as if Romeo cut the threads holding Mercutio up. His friend slumped to the floor, a broken marionette – or was it one that had become free from the puppetry of pretence? 

Graceful Mercutio nevertheless remained as he danced long fingers along Romeo’s wrist, pulling his hand closer to press it against trembling lips.

"Do..." Romeo whispered, the word sticking in his throat. He was afraid to break this gossamer spell that was weaving around them now. Somehow, their touches and their eyes, the love that burned in them all, each fragile flame its own hue, was shutting out the dankness of the prison and the weight of hatred and blood: the hatred that had been fed with curses and with spite for so long that Romeo thought even one careless word might bring it to life among them again, fouling each touch and moment. 

He spoke not, and laid one warning finger along Mercutio’s lips; a kiss his hand received in reply, and a teasing smirk, but he too kept his silence. 

Tybalt moved with less grace, long fingers returning to map Romeo’s chest again, his dark hair curtaining his face away as he knelt upon the pallet. He shifted obligingly enough at least, lifting his leg and holding himself against the wall when Romeo wriggled and laid himself fully on the scratchy straw. A moment he seemed to hover above, a raised demon or angel cast fully in marble angles and spilled ink, and then he slowly lowered himself, settled upon Romeo and so captured him at last – not with shackles or with fists, but by the smoothness of leather-encased legs and curious hands. He moved slowly, almost unconsciously undulating his lower body against Romeo even as he continued to stroke with enquiring hands. 

It was difficult for Romeo to tell what Tybalt was gaining from touching him so. His expression was unreadable, so that only the steady creak of his leathers and slow shifting pressure against Romeo’s own loins revealed that he did not merely dream this.

An enigma, Tybalt, and one he thought it foolhardy to unravel too fast. So Romeo contented himself by putting a hand on his left leg, feeling the firmness of muscle move beneath the leather and kneading with gentle force. He wished, foolishly perhaps, that he could manage to make this man relax at least once, not in slack unconsciousness, but in the satisfaction of pleasure.

Romeo felt more than heard the shifting of Mercutio's body. He turned to face him, enjoying both the smile that lit his face and the nearness of him. His friend was beautiful, and if Tybalt seemed somewhat less than present in the moment, there was no mistaking the focus of these light eyes or Mercutio’s rising eagerness, which responded with a twitch and a deepening flush at Romeo’s lingering gaze. 

Mercutio’s hand returned to his head, tangling in his hair for a moment before continuing down his face. 

Cradling his cheek softly, Romeo closed his eyes, smiled, and waited; he was not surprised when a questioning kiss was pressed to the side of his nose, and answered by turning his head and finding Mercutio’s lips. His friend was smooth-faced and there was a hint of perfume left in his hair, but the fingers against his cheek were callused as neither lady’s nor courtesan’s would be. When Romeo’s dangling hand brushed against the arm moving between slim legs then – after only a moment’s hesitation – dared the plunge to tangle with Mercutio’s fingers around his firmness, there was no mistaking him at all.

A moan broke free of Mercutio, and though Romeo could not reach very well, only assist in what his own hand was already doing, Mercutio’s kisses grew fiercer, lit by a new fire. He shuffled closer, demanded more with mouth and touches; he did not beg, not Romeo’s proud friend. Yet his joy from every touch, the little sighs and hitches of breath, the sudden clumsiness in his kisses, the swell of his prick in Romeo’s hand... each sign was so lovely, that giving fast became its own delight. 

"I should have wooed you," Mercutio whispered when he withdrew from Romeo. There was a blush on his cheek and a glimmer in his eyes that made the growing ache of pleasure inside Romeo take on a different tone. "I should have whispered words of love into your ear, each word such a treasure that I’d have wrapped you in a spider’s web of sweetness to hide you away from the world. I’d have you flattered and dizzy from my words; you’d stumble drunk through life, seeing nothing but love and knowing only the sunlit days of worship... I should have caught you and pinned you down, then drunk you dry until there was nothing in you worth my longing."

Again he kissed, and Romeo responded to the growing force, twisting on the hard bed as much as he could. Mercutio's scent was warm in its familiarity: the shoulder to lean on when the night grew too long and the hand fussing with his hair when melancholy weighed too heavy. He pushed back against Mercutio now, giving a kiss of far different quality than the one stolen first from him. He squeezed around his flesh, thrusting his own hips until he felt Tybalt’s weight bear down on him, clung to the cool leather while Mercutio dripped sweet poison in his ear. All the while, useless tears of regret trickled down his own cheeks.

"If I had spoken – oh Romeo, sweet Romeo, you’d have forgotten the girls and their delights. I’d have written you such poems that your heart would break as soon as you opened their seal. I’d have whispered you starlight in your ear and sung you the summer days alive, so that you’d never dare leave my web of love and hungry words." Mercutio groaned at his touch, their hands grasping over his prick. He laid his cheek against Romeo’s and although his voice was the gentlest whisper, there was not a shred of mercy in his words: "Had I made you mine... I’d have dressed your fears in compliments of silk, covered this flawed world with my rainbow song until you saw nothing of the bleakness of our city. If I had only spoken, I’d have fed you such hollow words of hollow-hearted love that you would soon imagine there was nothing beyond my light! I’d wind myself around you, I’d become both spider and web, and bind you until we strangled ourselves with pleasure. If I had only spoken... what lies would have killed us? What sweet flattery would see you hollowed by my hand!" At last, Mercutio’s poise shattered; his voice broke and he clung to Romeo, silent but for the shudder of his breath. Their hands worked in tandem until with a keen of loss, he spent his pleasure against Romeo's hand.

He cradled his friend close then, pressing a kiss to Mercutio's forehead and trying to swallow down his own tears. They had a few heartbeats of silence then, gentle softness in the space between words... but they were not lovers, and would never be. Romeo had no right to hold his golden friend as he had so many lissom girls before, as he hoped to soon hold his wife, the Lord have mercy on his plight.

"My friend, my dearest Mercutio, you never hurt me; lay aside at least that fear." And would Romeo repay that gift in no lesser coin. "You were a light when I feared the darkness of my mind, and never let me wallow too long in my own foolishness. You were, and will remain always, my dearest friend." Romeo let his arms fall away at that. Friendship was his offer and though they might play more tonight, he would no longer trap Mercutio in this fruitless labyrinth of frozen hope. "Thank you – for the words you spoke now, for the words you chose not to speak... For never trying to bind me in any way."

Mercutio sighed, long and heartfelt, and slid away to sit on his heels, leaning on the pallet; only allowing a finger to circle against Romeo’s chest. Unconscious, this last touch, and not one Romeo could ever forbid. "The bitter comfort of virtue you offer me. I never closed my trap, and look now – an angel has come to lift you away, illuminating our shadows and revealing all our flaws. Now, you shall fly, and what remains for me?" He bent down, nuzzled Romeo’s skin and sighed softly. "Perhaps I shall teach Julia to write you poetry; flawed or not, you’d have earned every gem I could give you."

"There is nothing you can teach Julia," Tybalt said from above them. " _You_ are not even fit to take her name in your mouth." Though his words were unfriendly, and the look of him not very pleased, his hand fell less heavily than it could have against Mercutio’s shoulder. When he tugged at Mercutio’s hair, white fingers tangling in copper locks in a way that made Romeo think of the shadow of duel which never quite happened, there was no violence in his grip, only insistence. Mercutio rolled his eyes, but sat up, slipping away from Romeo. Surely he imagined the sudden chill at his side.

Slinging an arm around Tybalt’s waist – and throwing a glimmer of laugh Romeo’s way, when he noticed him trying to wipe off his hand on some straw – Mercutio walked two fingers down the taut front of Tybalt’s leathers.

"What do you consider me fit to take into my mouth then, sweet prince of ill-timed interruptions? Mayhap," he pressed his palm down, "your well-honed blade? Your little dagger, sharpened at so many cheap whetstones that it has cost you all skills of nighttime flattery?"

Romeo saw Tybalt’s jaw work again, the long fine line of his throat moving with his Adam’s apple when he swallowed, but his body remained still, only his legs growing tighter. The confinement was not uncomfortable; he dared answer with a slow thrust of his own, knowing Tybalt felt it from the swell of his muscles, from the breaking of his body’s rhythm. 

"My friend, you don’t need to do all the work," Romeo suggested, daring to add his hand to Mercutio’s, before he thrust his hips up again. 

Beneath his palm, Tybalt’s arousal was clearly felt, even through the constriction of the leather. Romeo became again intensely aware of his own interest, half-trapped and too long ignored beneath drawers and the weight of tension in their little cell. 

"I shouldn’t..." When Tybalt’s voice trailed off, a frown of confusion marring his features, Mercutio rolled his eyes and began tugging at his laces. "No!" He pushed the deft hand away, but let his own linger on it; with a tiny huff, he caressed Mercutio’s fingers, before pulling them away – but slowly enough that it gave an impression of awkward gentleness. "Don’t touch me like that."

Mercutio looked up at him for a moment, allowing his gaze to roam over Tybalt's body, lingering at the split of his trousers, then continuing down until Romeo felt the weight of his regard light a glow in his own cheeks.

Tybalt swallowed then, catching Romeo’s eyes, and there was again in him both ungainly anger – for he snarled fearfully at them, and the name he called Mercutio when he laughed and fondled him again would have brought a duel on the open street – but also that fresh spark tempering the anger. Perhaps it had been there earlier already, briefly glimpsed in the lull of the fight.

Mercutio grabbed Tybalt’s arm them, turned it sharply so he could see the palm. And Tybalt allowed this handling, as he had not allowed the teasing touch before. Romeo wondered at that, even as he shifted. With Tybalt gone, with that slow pressure, like a wave of distracted pleasure removed from him, he felt both bereft and more clear-headed. He was not at all certain... 

A small puff of breath, an exagerated kiss to the air above the bandage: that was all Mercutio deigned to give the wrapped hand, before he changed his focus to Tybalt’s arm. This now, he lavished with considerably more attention, turning it around like a foreign piece of art. And as always, when Mercutio performed, he drew all eyes. Romeo forgot his doubts and Tybalt... His eyes were glossy darkness and while Mercutio played him with tiny non-touches and teasing hints, his lips softened and a hint of color rose up the column of his throat until he looked almost not like Tybalt, the anger of the Capulets, but became only a young man caught in pleasure.

With puckered lips not quite hiding the beginning of a smirk, Mercutio took a firmer hold of Tybalt’s arm. He blew softly on him, first following the blue line of a vein upwards, until he bent and dipped his tongue in the hollow of Tybalt's elbow; then turned his arm, again blowing a sharp stream of air so that the sparse scattering of dark hairs rose as in chill, while Tybalt’s fingers curled around nothing. Tybalt held himself still, though, utterly still except for the deepening of his breath and the occasional twitch of a finger.

How could Romeo find himself so mesmerized by this odd play? He did not feel Mercutio’s breath on his own skin, could not hear the soft exhalation, only watch – and yet he felt a chill rise along his own spine, not just the prickle of straw making him shift restlessly. There was a devil hiding in the curve of Mercutio’s spine, there was still spite in the edges of his face and anger lurking in the glint of his eyes – but there was also the cherished friend who still saw love at the edge of the world. There was the gentleness with which he handled Tybalt, not counteracting his demand but all the while refusing the meaning of it with his intangible caress. It seemed to Romeo that this was what let him pull so close, as if there was a web of – not words, for those Tybalt would hurl away and rage apart – but of touches, as if Mercutio’s soft handling could spell away the shield of anger.

When Mercutio reached Tybalt’s palm, he dipped his tongue out and drew the lines of life and fortune above the cloth of the bandage. It looked for a moment as if he made to press a kiss to the covered palm, but Tybalt jerked his hand back – or tried. He found it caught at once in an unrelenting grip, Mercutio’s fingers whitening around his wrist.

"Don’t rush off now, little cat," he whispered. "Is it not better to do this properly, if at all?" Blowing softly on each finger in turn, the pink tip of his tongue appearing to taste – each flick sent a tremble through Tybalt, the crinkle of his leathers audible even over Romeo's loud pulse, which seemed to thrum in time to Tybalt’s movement against him. He did not mind being forgotten for the moment; the weight against him was dizzying enough, and the sight of Mercutio, with studied ease slipping Tybalt’s index finger into his mouth, lips closing around it and cheeks hollowing until he had taken him to the second joint, made his insides clench. 

Silent, captivated, Romeo ground against Tybalt, ignoring the discomfort of cloth against his prick. His hands clutched at straw and leather; although he wanted to feel naked flesh beneath them, he did not voice his desires, only watched and suffered marvellously.

Mercutio was grace incarnate as he rose up against Tybalt. One knee on the pallet took his weight, and Romeo stared at them, breathless at the sight of these two caught in such precious balance. Mercutio beneath the dim light had a glow like burnt gold upon the planes of his belly, while dustings of sunsets lingered in the curls around his softened sex. A young god born from the ruins of this prideful city, captured and brought low – but never completely cowed. 

Not Mercutio, who feasted upon his enemy’s hand less as a service offered and far more as his due tribute. The lewdness he infused every move with was both playful and enticing, until Tybalt with a frustrated groan grabbed him around the neck, pulled him close, and kissed him with the maddened fervor of a drowning man tasting air. 

Romeo too groaned, the confinement of his drawers now far too uncomfortable; his voice was louder than expected, but he could not contain it any longer. It was almost a relief when the vision broke before him.

With a look of gratitude, Tybalt yanked his hand free of Mercutio’s grip and turned away from the kiss. 

"It’s not," he began, then stuttered to silence; licked his lips as if he could not speak with the heated kisses still clinging to them. "Let me see." He wiped his face, and glanced down at Romeo, but closed his eyes as if the sight hurt him. "You try him," he finally said. 

"Pardon?" Mercutio put a finger to his own ear, delicately angling it forward; despite his swollen lips and the heaving of his chest, the movement remained refined. "While you speak my fondest wish, proving that even blind thrusts can occasionally draw blood, I do not think –"

"I want to see that he’s good enough!" 

Tybalt’s hands smacked down onto Romeo’s skin with a sting just this side of unpleasant; he hissed and tried to rise upon his elbows, but was pressed down again with ease.

"I need to see… She is too good for you, but you must –" Tybalt’s nails were careful against him; he did not wish to leave too-blatant marks, Romeo realized with a start. The words made more sense, then, and he made himself relax; these hands no longer aimed to hurt him.

Not if he belonged to Julia.


	4. Chapter 4

When Mercutio moved to interfere, Romeo shook his head and let himself indulge in being touched. He had known harsher treatment from many a woman and as long as he did not have to guard against true violence, Tybalt's hands only stirred him further.

His drawers had no protection, however: with a look of dark delight, Tybalt gripped the edges and then began to tear the fabric apart with determination.

"We shall be quite the image to present my uncle.” The prospect seemed to delight Mercutio, for he was quick to help Tybalt, fussing over the linens until Romeo felt like pushing them both away and hiding himself in the straw.

"At least he won't be able to accuse us of fighting?" he tried, then gave a yelp as Tybalt's weight landed uncomfortably on his knee.

"Come down," Mercutio suggested. "There is no possible way we shall all fit. You have far too much leg to crouch upon this narrow thing and your looks are already too much those of the vulture without adopting their pose as well."

Tybalt sneered at him, but slid down. Romeo sat up, groaning at the snap of muscles; his neck was most unimpressed with his resting place; at least they were not likely to go to sleep for a while yet.

"I do wonder about that," Romeo mumbled, determinedly not looking at Mercutio's cheerful smile as he fondled and measured – not looking at all. "That we only received two cots between the three of us, I mean." And not a guard in sight in the dark corridor outside the cell, as if the prince had decided to wholly wash his hands of their existence.

Mercutio shrugged. "My dearest uncle has always been too fond of his little lessons, and I believe this is one he has long wished to teach. Although perhaps not," he admitted as he slid down next to Romeo and draped himself over him, "with this exact outcome."

"And what exact outcome would that be?" While it was easy to see where things were heading, with Tybalt settling in between his legs and Mercutio watching the proceedings with a lecherous smile, it was unsettling to have so little control of events. Not that all girls were easily led... but Romeo had rarely known any with tempers such as these, and had definitely never been fool enough to bring two such ladies together.

"That you prove your worth," Tybalt said, sliding his hands along the inside of Romeo's thighs. He shared – wonder beyond wonders! – a conspiratorial grin with Mercutio. "That you show me the strength of your determination."

A moment later, Romeo near bit through his tongue. Tybalt, leaving no time for further arguments, bent forward and took the tip of his cock into his mouth. With practiced ease he let already wetted lips slide down Romeo, who could not tell if it was the heat of his mouth or the sight of _Tybalt_ doing so which stirred him more.

Mercutio's grip on his shoulders was an anchor, the tickle of his breath along Romeo's cheek a counterpoint to the tightening in his loins. He might have spoken – of course he had – he was Mercutio, he'd enter heaven still quipping and teasing. But his words blurred together and Romeo's awareness fnarrowed away from understanding. Tybalt's long fingers held his thighs apart, fighting hands unfamiliar with gentleness even now, kneading just a shade too hard. When Romeo's hips lifted in an unconscious movement, they almost pinched. Stay put, they ordered, and he obeyed.

His mouth though... there, finally, the gentleness of Tybalt stood to find. Each movement was careful, as he dipped his head down to slowly taste more of Romeo’s prick, taking more on each turn. No teeth, only wet warmth and the enveloping wonder he had before most often known from working girls. They had been efficient, some very skilled. 

Tybalt was neither. Meticulous instead, and so more than making up for any lacking skill. So focused was he that each movement felt like a benediction, although if it was one given or one received, Romeo could not tell. There was submission in the gesture, in how proud Tybalt worked thin lips and hollowed flushed cheeks to take a Montague's prick; undeniable pride in how he did not hide, no hesitation discernable in the bow of his head. Only the natural concealment from thick waves of hair sheltered him as he wholly took Romeo inside and offered this most obscene of kisses.

The touch of air was cool when Tybalt withdrew, the distant serenity of his features were dark lashes curtained away thoughts and intents, the smallest scrape of teeth on heated flesh; it was too thrilling an experience, and Romeo turned his face aside and clung to Mercutio's comforting flame.

Romeo's kisses were too clumsy now, but he could offer no better. He pulled his friend to him, stroked trembling hands over the angles of his flesh, over his cheek and collarbone and nipples, all the parts of him sweet and warm, all these parts of Mercutio that were worth a thousand better caresses – he should have offered more, but Romeo had lost the famous lover in the shattering of a world and not yet found him in the rebuilding of a new.

Wherever Romeo was lost, Mercutio had found him. And though they were fumbling, he still felt as if Mercutio rejoiced in each touch. By the twist of his limbs and the curving of his beauty, he transformed each movement into golden perfection. His hands found spots of delight – the inside of an arm, the line of a collarbone, the tickle beneath his shoulderblades – that pushed Romeo ever further towards the brink, and his clever mouth gave no respite, allowed no time for second thoughts; just as things had always been between them, if not to these drunken heights before.

Habit long ingrained was all that saved him, when Mercutio's touches and Tybalt's mouth drew him almost too far. Though his tongue was thick, and Romeo scarcely knew if he was in an earthly cell or drowning in his own feverish dreams, he managed to tear himself from the kiss and gasp some words to the effect of his impending climax. Mercutio caught it, smiled with wicked joy and then, with affect not entirely kind, wound a hand in Tybalt's hair.

"Break off, my eager prince," he said, tugging so that black strands pulled tight around his fingers, "or your own hard-won skills will blunt the very blade you have desired to see prick me."

"Oh, no, please," Romeo begged when Tybalt slowly, far too slowly, pulled back. He did not hurry, despite Mercutio's exasperated encouragement, only withdrew with deliberate slowness until only the tip of his prick rested in his mouth. Lips grown dark and glossy from their work were too easily around his prick, that unseen tongue which still swirled and teased; it made the sweetest agony for Romeo. Had Tybalt not pressed his hand to the root of him, he might have spilled too soon, whether it risked grave insult or not.

"You should hurry," Mercutio said, trailing his fingers down Tybalt's face, dipping inside his mouth – Romeo groaned, fire spreading in his belly as he felt tongue and finger tangled around him, teasing or battling or simply there to drive him mad – "our groom grows impatient, and the night does not last forever."

Tybalt spoke against him, and the touch of his words fed the flames inside Romeo. "He should show the endurance of a man, if he wants to be anything but a thieving dog." He glanced up, and Romeo was caught again by the smoking depths of his anger; but what cause it had now, he could not tell, for Tybalt's words were too loaded with lust for anything else to shine through. "Are you ready?" Then his lips twisted and he shook his head, his movement slowing into a affected half-kiss pressed against Romeo's manhood.

Tybalt wished, Romeo decided, to kill him thus: either with frustration, or with the swiftness of his rage if were Romeo to break and spill too early.

"Why do I even ask?" Tybalt's eyes closed again, and he worked his mouth, leaving spit at Romeo between the words. "For such duels, you were born ready, and have done nothing –"

"Nothing but take your gibes and heaves, and win the battle even so! Yes, we have heard this song before – although never, I must confess, while your own sheath still clings to a sword!" Mercutio's cuff looked half-hearted, barely nudging Tybalt's head, but the sound of it shocked Romeo like cold water down his back.

"What are you doing?" He tried to push Mercutio away while keeping a careful eye on Tybalt – the memory of teeth sharp in his mind again.

"A soft-handed, soft-voiced hussy I may be," Mercutio sneered, "but at least shame has never been my vice! See yourself, you fool, and stop pretending you're aught but the yowling, creeping, crawling beast that cannot resist night's sin, whether offered by dove or lamb or goat-hided peacock boys!"

"And shame at least has saved me," Tybalt said, bitterness and satisfaction mingling in his voice, "from the hubris to think myself more. You were born to a prince's house, but threw it away for clownery and filth. I'm born to sin. If I fail – so what? As long as my blade draws blood, I've served my purpose."

Romeo's eyes happened to fall upon Mercutio at the correct moment – good fortune– or he would have missed the wince of pain marring his flushed face. It was quickly hidden beneath a smirk, and when he began to speak, Romeo expected nothing but spite to emerge. But before the sting of words, there had been a glimpse of pain shared and long hidden, and so he did not bother to put his own poor wit to the trial again. Instead, he pressed two fingers to Mercutio's lips, met his eyes, and tried to show in one single smile all he had begun to realize this night. When the pale eyes fluttered in confusion and Mercutio's silver tongue stalled, for once, he thought he might have managed.

"Come," he said to Tybalt, trying to draw him up by his shoulders. When Tybalt refused to move, he sank down before him, allowing himself to be trapped between Tybalt's tense frame and the cot pressing against his back. That he was eyed with suspicion did not bother Romeo. This twist of lips showing a glimpse of teeth, the furrowing of eyebrows bringing storm upon his entire self: in one night, Romeo had learned to see it as something other than a danger already, and he tried to tell as much with his hand – soft, on the sharp jawline, gentle when it held Tybalt still – and with his kiss. 

It was not a mouth used to gentleness, Tybalt's, answering the press of Romeo's lips with shock and then too much force, but the lips softened slowly beneath his patience. He felt a vibrating tension beneath his hand, could not even work his fingers into muscles hardened by so many years of rage, and so settled for stroking and petting, fingers tangling in rich hair and sliding down like a rain of gentleness along the long neck. Perhaps, if they were lucky, a few drops would slip beneath his armor and water his thirsting soul.

"You demean your cousin by refusing her kin any worth," Romeo scolded mildly, his tone as gentle as if he spoke to a frightened virgin. "I will not hear such slander against my lady." He followed his words with another kiss, daring now to wrap his other arm around Tybalt and feeling – with amazement and delight – long fingers wrapping around his hip, supporting him away from the hard floor.

"That was not my intent. She is of a better make than I." Tybalt's voice was low, and his words hesitant – but not angry.

"And yet you were born to the same house; do not belittle that, or yourself, and shame her by association."

"I... will not."

Despite feeling the man against himself in several ways, Romeo's mind flashed to a little boy staring at his shoes as he apologized for mistakes. When he pressed a new kiss to Tybalt's lips, he was not surprised to feel them closed under his own, thin and unforgiving. All the greater his joy, when with gentle coaxing they opened before him and a sigh escaped Tybalt – if not fiery passion, at least contentment. And when Tybalt slowly pushed him away, turned his face from Romeo despite the bulge beneath his leathers, it came as not too great a surprise. Perhaps Tybalt had no wish to burn with passion's fire tonight, not when the madness of battle and hatred still lay banked in his heart.

"I wish to give you some ease," Romeo promised and kissed him anew: first his lips, then at the side of them, and he rubbed his cheek against Tybalt's bony face, as he might a dear relative. "What did you wish to see, then?"

The path of Tybalt's gaze was answer enough, and Romeo craned his neck backwards. From this angle, Mercutio's smirk was distant as the sickle of the moon, though his desire was all the clearer to see, as was the easy rhythm with which he kept it ready.

"I'm not at all certain this isn't ill-advised," Romeo said, but clambered back up upon the cot again, Tybalt's hand lingering along his back and calf. "We have no oil, do we?"

"We won't need that." Then Tybalt offered him again the best replacement they had.

"It is in essence," Mercutio said, while wiping the remains of spittle off his own fingers on the straw, "a matter of desire, fit, and such easing substances as might influence the former." He shooed Tybalt away and climbed atop Romeo, who hurried to settle himself further in on the cot, before they both ended up on the floor. "As for fit, ah, I shan't inquire as to how the ladies you have tried this game with before found you, for we both know you are far too delicate a creature to speak of such – although not, one must admit, too delicate to do. Although..." Mercutio fair beamed at him as he knelt above Romeo's lap, "I do hope you did both woo and prepare them with easing oils, for it seems sorely needed, with your grand presence."

"Of course I did," Romeo muttered, then took a moment to kiss Mercutio, before taking himself in hand. "Why do you think I hesitate now?"

"Because, my dear, you do not see that this triangle of corporeal delights has more than two corners: the substances, be they oil to ease the way or wine to dim the senses, are unattainable. The fit is, hah, as it shall be and not much to be done for that – and if our prickly prince says _one word_ about my amusements or my fitness, I shall choke him with his own words, armistice or not –"

"Wouldn't dream of it," Tybalt replied. To Romeo's surprise, he came closer, so that he knelt with a hand along Romeo's thigh. He was even smiling. "You put it more elegantly than I ever could, anyway. No use in repeating such an obvious truth."

Romeo hurried to take Mercutio's mouth before he could reply to those words. Then, with tenderness and great care, he began to feel him open with two fingers, asking for permission and finding it granted with every eager caress. There was the heady sensation of warmth against the tips of his fingers, the whole thing not unlike breaching a girl from the back. In his embrace, the wiry body and hard prick nudging his own belied all such likeness, and his kiss ended into a smile; Romeo would not have wished anyone else in his arms in this moment, and was glad that passion could not make him forget his friend.

"That brings us then," Mercutio continued, only a slight breathlessness revealing his state, "to the third angle: the desire! From this point we may," he broke off with a gasp as Romeo slid another finger inside him, easing his way carefully inside. "Oh, a sharp angle indeed; the sharper it cuts, the less attention one need to offer any other corner. And do trust me, my sweetest..." When Mercutio spat on his own hand, quickly delivering the load onto Romeo, and nodded at him, he changed his hold and prepared again to follow his friend's lead. Mercutio’s words fell all the quicker, even as the heaving of his chest increased and they together began easing Romeo inside.

"I wish your rapier to cut me to the bone; if I bleed away like Caesar of old, I shall embrace my Brutus before I fade like all the legends must." Mercutio's eyes scrunched closed, and Romeo held up – took a moment to stroke his friend's cock, aware with each moment of the almost too-intense feeling of heat surrounding him, humming endearments before the pleasure burned all the way into pain for them both.

"No finer death could a man have, be he emperor or fool," Mercutio whispered, and settled at last against him. He kissed Romeo, the tension in his shoulders melting away with each deep breath, and the eagerness of his prick demanding, even before he slowly began to rise up again. "Shall we die together then, in bloodless battle?"

"Not to battle," Romeo murmured, his own voice thick with lust, "but to this death, I'll follow you gladly."

They moved together, Mercutio feeling lighter in his arms with each passing stroke, though he took it slowly still, putting more spittle on his hand until the last unpleasant burn had passed. Now, Mercutio became the flame instead – pushed Romeo backwards until he lay against both cool stone and scratchy straw and noticed neither, eyes and mind and heart wholly on the fire they were building together.

He had never seen Mercutio so beautiful, naked and proud in every sense, demanding more from him with every clench of muscle and half-gasped laugh. Romeo gave gladly, receiving delighted cries for each upwards stroke and moans of pleasure for the work of his hand.

Beside him, Tybalt only peripherally registered, though he managed, now and then, to caress the hand roaming over him. For reassurance or for pleasure, his mind was not fit to decide – but he was soaring away on desire's wings, and had no wish to leave anyone alone and behind.

If he soared, Mercutio was soon dancing among the stars; long before weariness could set in, Romeo felt his movements grow jerky and he bit his lip to hold back for just a little more.

"Tybalt," he gasped, "help me here." The flex of his hand made it clear where he meant.

There came no reply and Romeo gritted his teeth and closed his eyes against the temptation of Mercutio. It did not help, only intensifying the assault on his other senses, until he thought he could not only feel and hear their pleasure, but taste their desire with his own lips.

Then, suddenly, there was a hand over his own, long fingers slowly wrapping around Mercutio's prick and changing Romeo's rhythm to one of their own choosing. Not a word said, and Romeo only managed the barest gasp of gratitude before he let go.

With two hands available, he could grab Mercutio's hips properly and change the angle to one less maddening for himself. Finally, Romeo dared look up at his friend again: the sight that met him was one to pierce his heart and burn there for all time.

Mercutio's eyes shone as if in the grip of fever, although his smile revealed nothing but sensual delight. His hair had grown dark with sweat. It trickled down his neck, lying too finely on his pale chest, and Romeo pulled him close for a taste, feeling the need to know this too, to know all of his dear friend. He was no longer gentle, driving his hips up with all his strength, gripping Mercutio’s slim body tightly. Bruises, Mercutio would not mind, and he left his fair share on Romeo in return. Fingers demanding ever more bored into Romeo's shoulders, even as his silver voice drove him on with the filthiest endearments, until that too degenerated into senseless babble. Finally, Mercutio threw his head back – what broke from him lay between a howl of pleasure and a lament. It seemed as if he was shaking apart in Romeo's grasp, even as he spilled himself over Tybalt's hand. When his body's movements slowed and he supported himself against Romeo's shoulders, there were tracks of more than sweat on his face.

He slumped against Romeo, pressing his face into his hair. A whisper – Romeo could not hear it, but he thought he knew the essence of the words – and Mercutio withdrew and graced him with a smile.

"Let me see you, then," Mercutio said, and clenched his muscles, a fierce look spreading over his face. With teasing touches and wet kisses, he pulled Romeo over the brink, all the while keeping hand on Romeo's face, watching intently as if to carve the image into his memory for all time.

To finally have relief, to fall and be caught by his friend, was a balm for his overwrought body. Romeo came with a silent gasp, the relief of the moment of equal portion with the pleasure. Afterwards, he clung to Mercutio while his heart strained to contain all that had passed between them. He had no wish to move. In a bedroom, perhaps they might have laid down, but in this cell there was little comfort to find. Better to hold Mercutio, to breathe, and not think of tomorrow yet.


	5. Chapter 5

The straw rustled next to him, and Romeo opened one eye. Tybalt was wiping his hand clean in the bedding, his lips pursed in distaste. He did not complain, however, and when he had cleaned up to his satisfaction, he stretched out long legs and slumped sideways against Romeo.

Mercutio reached down and fumbled around until he managed to pet Tybalt's hair, not actually bothering to lift his face from where he'd hidden it against Romeo. "Does the kitten need a hand?"

Tybalt's snort was annoyed, but he batted Mercutio's hand away without much aggression. "I don't need any help from you."

"Ohh..." Mercutio turned his face, stage-whispering into Romeo's ear. "I do believe he enjoyed the sight. Truly, we probably do make a sweeter example than most of the two-backed beasts he is used to seeing; what we lack in curves and paint, we compensate with the absence of sores."

Romeo heaved a sigh. "Mercutio, please."

"I prattle; I _do_ that, or so I have heard told. And who am I to argue with the wisdom of a man of world, married and peacekeeping as he is?"

"Hah, as if you are one to obey me! You'd argue with God the Father himself if it would amuse you."

"You won't have to argue with Prince Escalus," Tybalt interrupted them, his voice growing harsher again.

Romeo bent forward, careful to keep hold of Mercutio, and gave him a curious glance. "How do you mean? I am fairly certain that our prince would be happy to turn us all into pillars of salt, and I'd almost believe his wrath to have the power to do so."

Tybalt did not look up at him, his profile sharp and tragic; some of his bruises had deepened in color from blotchy red and there were dark circles beneath his eyes, though Romeo was heartened to see the lines of anger wiped away.

"You love this fool, do you?"

"I do," Romeo admitted proudly. "He is my best friend. And Julia I love as my wife and the sunlight of my future."

"Mhm." There was a moment's silence before Tybalt let loose a small laugh. "I shall explain things to the prince. Provided – and I will question her on this, before I say anything at all! – that Julia agrees. Yes. As long as Julia entered this marriage of her own free will. As long as you," he waved his hand, and Romeo almost thought he wished to wipe off these words in the straw as well, "are what brings her joy, you will have my support. Whatever it is worth. And you may keep your fool around as well. Perhaps he will amuse her. The prince will not blame you."

Romeo was about to answer when Mercutio pinched him in warning. This time, his words were soft as a bird's flight through the air, but the warning in them rang loud and clear.

"Beware, Romeo. If you wish to be rid of him – and who'd blame you? – then agree," Mercutio breathed against his ear. "But if you wish to keep the lout around – take care."

He closed his mouth, frowned, and tried to think. It was not easy, for he was sated in body, and exhausted in mind – but with Mercutio's warning, he thought he saw the shape of Tybalt's solution. It no more appealed to Romeo now than it had when they entered the cell.

"We all share a measure of blame," Romeo began, knowing he sounded too hesitant but unable to imitate certainty when he had none. "While I did not take part in this latest battle, I too have broken the peace of the streets without a thought for the consequences." A gentle pressure, and Mercutio climbed off, settling himself on the straw.

"This doesn't half scratch," he remarked.

Ignoring his friend, Romeo continued. "I would not ask you to speak any more than the truth, Tybalt. There was a fight, yes, but I think we can promise it will not happen again. If Prince Escalus punishes you and Mercutio... He will not go too far, and hand out more than you can bear."

"You put much trust in the prince's mercy, and his patience," was all Tybalt would reply.

"Even if it has been too strained lately, he is a fair man and a good ruler," Romeo argued. "And beyond my love for Julia, this marriage may at last mean peace! He will see that and not wish to upset it by bloody retribution."

"Better to sweep away the shadows of the past first. Then you will have peace," Tybalt said. "Peace and joy, and Julia's presence."

And neither would be left for him, so why ought he even strive any longer? As he had not voiced that thought directly, so Romeo dared not oppose him openly. Instead he only mumbled something vague about hoping for joy and the fulfilling peace of love for them all.

Tybalt chose silence, and after a while, he rose and walked gingerly over to the bars of the cell.

Too tired to think of the right words, Romeo lay down on his uncomfortable bedding, Mercutio on one side and the cold stone on the other.

"The third bucket for washing?" Tybalt asked.

"Yes." Romeo fell silent again, his thoughts crawling like snails through his mind.

"You should bring us some water," Mercutio demanded. "It is not our fault that you are too stubborn to accept a helping hand."

The wet rag that smacked down on Romeo's stomach was cold and unpleasant; he sat up with a sputter and lifted it off.

When he glared over at Tybalt, he saw him kneeling by the water, using another piece of fabric to – oh, that was why he had not wished for their assistance. 

Wiping himself off, then handing the rag to Mercutio, Romeo considered his next actions. He wished, most of all, to sleep. No; in truth, he wished most of all to sleep in his own bed, with Julia in his arms and the knowledge that peace ruled in Verona. He would not have that much even in his dreams if he slipped away now, with so many worries still churling inside.

Finished with his ablutions, Tybalt quickly laced up his trousers again. Then he settled against the bars and slipped his wounded hand into their washing bucket. He seemed prepared to drift off in that position. Perhaps it would be good for his burn, but the memory of how they had entered the cell rankled at Romeo. While Mercutio might be next to him, instead of on the other bunk, it was still too similar to that first hour of silent anger.

"You never told us how you damaged your hand so," Mercutio drawled. Romeo wondered if he had followed the same pattern of thought.

Tybalt snorted and refused to reply.

"Did you have an accident while baking, perchance? Wait – your pardon, I did not mean to imply that you would lift a hand without violence as the goal. Did you burn yourself on the fires of lust, perhaps? Or were stung by empty money pouches – the ladies of the night can very unwelcoming if your gold runs out, or so I've heard told," he said in an aside to Romeo. "What else might there be..."

"Would you just shut up," Tybalt said, voice tired. "What I burn for is none of your business."

"Ah, but it has just recently become mine!" Mercutio rolled over on his stomach, supporting himself on his hands, and threw a bright smile at Tybalt's glower. "You see, my dear friend, my accomplice, my beloved comrade in so many jests and pranks – he has married into your house! Why, though Julia will take his name, from his actions tonight, I might just as well consider him a little kitten too! And thus, for Romeo, I cannot have you break his kin. Not when he so clearly wishes to keep in sight your ungentle face."

Tybalt frowned at them. "What?"

"It would upset Julia to hear of your pain," Romeo added, also turning around and slinging an arm around Mercutio. He was certain that his eyes gleamed as earnestly as whenever his mother scolded him. "I could not have that! I have sworn to offer her only joy throughout my days."

"It would upset Romeo to see Julia's pain." Mercutio took up the thread easily and cocked his head against Romeo's. In this way, they had once pleaded with the prince himself, and won that argument as well. "I cannot have that, on my honour as the jester of my beloved's court!"

"Merc –"

"Nay, hear me! I shall bring him laughter throughout his days, I shall see them flourish in joy and when their love has ripened and borne fruit, I shall most decidedly teach the saplings all the youthful joys their parents are sure to have forgotten. And you, sourpuss that you are, seem necessary for this vision of delight. Perhaps as bitter herbs aid in the distillation of joyful spirits, so your snarls shall give a fuller note to our city of gardens and nightly whispers? As substanceless as this mirage of a finer future may appear, think, my tomcat prince, of the bouquet of costly spirits and the promise of delights they offer. Invisible for certain, and a promise of a headache more than all else – yet tangible, and the sweetest path to death one might taste. Shall we not let ourselves become drunk on this promise of hope as well?"

Giving up on following Mercutio's words, Romeo dared to offer Tybalt a shrug of shared confusion. "Why not join us here? Won't be too comfortable, but I don't think we'll find much comfort in this cell anyway. Some warmth at least we could share."

Shaking his head, Tybalt sounded wrung out when he spoke. "But why bother?"

"Because otherwise, I suspect Mercutio will needle and demand until we are both dizzy from his talk." Romeo did not have to feign his yawn.

Finally, Tybalt rose, nearly staggered for a moment, then walked over to them. He looked down at Romeo, who pushed Mercutio aside and pressed himself against the wall: it would truly be narrow to share this bed, but that price seemed easy enough to pay for one night. 

The darkening shadows beneath Tybalt’s eyes and the slump to his bearing stole the haughtiness from his features. He had removed the bandage, although he still protected the burn with his other hand. It seemed, suddenly, not a sacrifice at all to invite him to join them in what little comfort they had.

"I have a request," he said.

"I am not moving." Mercutio took hold of a lace from Tybalt's trousers and tugged at it with two fingers. "Spare yourself the shame, and do not even make that demand."

For once, Tybalt heeded Romeo's advice and ignored him. "If you –" He swallowed, eyes twitching shut as if the words pained him, but carried on, although his voice deepened into his usual snarl as he spoke. "I have one request only, and it is that if you have children. If Julia...if you have children with Julia, then please. Do not." Tybalt lifted his burned hand and pressed it to his lips. "Do not raise them as Capulets would. Please."

"Neither as Capulets, nor as Montagues," Romeo promised immediately. "The blood of our families may run in both me and my bride, but the hatred that was their legacy will not continue past us. So I swear, or may God strike me down."

Then Tybalt gave him his burned hand, squeezing too hard as was his wont. Although Romeo's fingers must have hurt him, he squeezed back to seal their oath.

When they had all settled into a pile of too many limbs in too little space, where Romeo's back and buttocks kept coming into contact with the rough stone, he nevertheless hooked a leg around his friend and threw a sheltering arm over them both. Then Romeo closed his eyes and made himself limp; pretended not to hear nor see the choked whimpers Tybalt could not hide in the straw. He forced his breathing as even as he could, and did not listen to Mercutio hum a soft tune of comfort, only occasionally broken by trembling breaths; never would he let on that he saw too well the reason for his friend's empathy with a broken heart.

**Author's Note:**

> If you read and enjoyed, feedback is appreciated.


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